HBP

The Mets are currently losing to the Phillies (8-0 in the sixth), but they've hit two Phillie batters (Ryan Howard and Shane Victorino) with pitches, which has made me happy. The Mets have been playing with some grit lately under Terry Collins, but I still think what they need, and have needed since the beginning of 2008, is to get into a brawl. They need something to help them cohere as a group. The 1986 Mets got into four brawls during the season, and, while the game is different now and that is an outrageous number, one or two wouldn't hurt.

Thoughts on Cavafy

This evening I've been reading in The Complete Poems of [Constantine] Cavafy (the 1976 Rae Dalven translation) in between innings of the Mets-Nationals game. I first encountered his poetry in J.D. McClatchy's anthology Love Speaks Its Name: Gay and Lesbian Love Poems and enjoyed it enough to desire more.


Cavafy's poems are almost all either love poems (the majority of them clearly homoerotic) or retellings of ancient Greek myths or history. The latter are not very good (compared, for instance, with the skillful way in which H.D. writes about the same subject matter), but the love poems are excellent. They tend to be short vignettes, beautifully crafted, about brief liaisons and the former lovers of the speaker's youth.


"On Painting" especially stands out to me:


I attend to my work and I love it.
But today the languor of composition disheartens me.
The day has affected me. Its face
is deepening dark. It continues to blow and rain.
I would sooner see than speak.
In this painting now, I am looking at
a beautiful lad who is stretched out
near the fountain, probably worn out from running.
What a beautiful child; what a divine noon
has now overtaken him to lull him to sleep.--
I sit and look so for a long time.
And again it is in art that I rest from its toil.


That last line is spectacular: the idea that the turmoil caused by the struggle to create beauty ("the languor of composition disheartens me") can only be assuaged by beauty's calming influence.


I love the depiction of visual art in poetry. Cavafy describes the path to the sublime that the best paintings reveal to viewers in a way that is reminiscent of Frank O'Hara's poem "Why I am Not a Painter," which also speaks of the mysterious beauty of painting from a sideways angle, using a painting as an illustration of this beauty rather than attempting a straightforward description of its essence.

Pastiche

I have a pastiche of pop culture references running through my head today:


"Eleanor, gee, I think you're swell, and you know you do me well, you're my pride and joy et cetera"


"I want my baby back baby back baby back, I want my baby back baby back baby back (Chili's baby back ribs, Chili's baby back ribs)"


"April is the cruellest month" (OK, so Eliot isn't exactly pop culture, but he's nerd pop culture)


"So, Prince, Genoa and Lucca are now no more than estates of the Bonapartes" (War and Peace isn't pop culture as well, but Peanuts is, and there's that great storyline where Snoopy is reading War and Peace one word per day.


the beginning horn riff of "Goldfinger."


Also, I'm wearing my "I'm Keith Hernandez" shirt today.

I'm Keith Hernandez / A film by Rob Perri

"We would have been safe" (and game six)

I just finished re-reading Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close to teach it tomorrow, and even though this was the sixth or seventh time I have read it, the last quarter of the book still makes me cry. It concludes about as happily as it possibly can--Oskar's father is still dead (no magical realism here), but he solves the mystery of the key, he and his mother are reconciled, and he realizes he has to/will be able to move on with his life--though the actual ending is heartwrenching. Oskar's final words, "We would have been safe" (326), signify the final loss of his childhood innocence, which is normally a healthy, important moment of growth. Foer does such a good job of making readers care about Oskar, though, that we hope he can just stay protected and happy forever. Oskar grows up instead, and we are left with the fact that for all of our childhood nostalgia, we live in a world where, as Abby Black says, "people hurt each other" for no good reason, even when we try our best not to (290).


Oskar's last sentence, coupled with the flipbook that shows a body falling back up into the World Trade Center, is also a public lament for Americans' pre-9/11 hopeful naivete that we were somehow in the violent, messy world, but not of it. We all share that desire for safety, but as Oskar says, "In the end, everyone loses everyone" (74), so we must confront the danger and live our lives to the fullest.


Anyway, to cheer myself up I watched the tenth inning of game six from the 1986 World Series. It still always amazes me that the Mets win; I get nervous every time I watch it.


Today I watched both halves of the inning (usually I just watch the bottom half), and it was shocking how much it looks like Boston is destined to win. I can't imagine having watched it as a Red Sox fan. Just before Dave Henderson hits a home run to put Boston ahead, NBC replayed his home run from game five of the ALCS, so it plays like he was pre-ordained to hit another one. Shortly thereafter, there is a shot of Henderson and Bill Buckner with their arms around one another in the dugout, laughing. Later in the inning, Buckner comes up with a runner in scoring position and Rick Aguilera hits him. Buckner glares out toward the mound and the home plate umpire has to get in front of him and guide him toward first base. This reaction is completely ridiculous on Buckner's part because there is no way Aguilera would be throwing at him intentionally. It is like the baseball gods punish Buckner for his reaction in the bottom half of the inning. As gods are wont to do, their punishment far outweighs the crime.


My favorite part of the bottom half of the inning* is Ray Knight screaming with joy to the heavens (I use this term intentionally--Knight explicitly thanks "the good Lord" in his post-game interview with Marv Albert [so does Mookie Wilson]) as his teammates mob him after he scores the winning run. It looks like he is barely able to breathe, like he is drowning in a sea of Mets. It is also wonderful how once the run crosses the plate Vin Scully stops talking and just lets the crowd noise and the camera shots speak for themselves.


* For those of you unfamiliar with the bottom half of the inning, here's a re-creation of it using the old Nintendo game RBI Baseball with the original NBC audio:

Books Acquired Recently

Books Acquired Recently (in the order I acquired them):


Disch, Thomas M. The Dreams Our Stuff is Made Of: How Science Fiction Conquered the World. 1998. New York: Touchstone, 2000.


A friend who knows that in the past several years I've been beginning to explore the world of science fiction (mostly as a result of reading Samuel R. Delany) gave this to me. It looks pretty interesting, though I have a rather sizeable stack of other things to read first, including the rest of the books mentioned in this post. I've read Disch's Camp Concentration and generally liked it as an anti-war statement/indictment of the American police state, though it wasn't spectacular aesthetically.


Humphreys, Laud. Tearoom Trade: Impersonal Sex in Public Places. 2nd ed. 1975. New Brunswick: AldineTransaction, 2009.


I first read this during my senior year of college, and it changed my life. The model of non-monogamous, anonymous sex it documents was completely new to me at the time, and it helped to open my eyes to just how important-while-being-commonplace sex is. It also helped me in my long journey to acknowledge that my sexual attraction to men is legitimate. Furthermore, the book prepared a conceptual framework which gave me a base from which to encounter and appreciate writers such as Delany and John Rechy, who have become essential for me.


Delany, Samuel R. Trouble on Triton. 1976. Middletown: Wesleyan UP, 1996.


I'm re-reading this for a paper that I am working on, so I decided to get the edition that is currently in print rather than using my old Bantam edition. I am also thinking about teaching it next year. Usually when I teach Delany's science fiction I teach Babel-17, but I am getting a little tired of it. My problem is that the Delany novels I love the most and/or find the most interesting (e.g., in no particular order, The Mad Man, Dhalgren, Equinox, The Tale of Plagues and Carnivals) are generally either too explicit or too complicated/long (or all three) to teach to undergraduates. Trouble on Triton might be an acceptable compromise.


Tucker, Jeffrey Allen. A Sense of Wonder: Samuel R. Delany, Race, Identity, and Difference. Middletown: Wesleyan UP, 2004.


This is also for the paper I am writing. I read pieces of it while researching my dissertation, but am now ready to interact with it fully.

Sunday Afternoon Sports Stuff

Overall, this has been a pretty good sports weekend. The Mets crushed the ball and pitched rather well against the Diamondbacks in their three-game sweep, Manchester United beat Everton to continue their run to a record nineteenth league championship, and (almost as good in terms of the chuckle it gave me) Arsenal lost to Bolton Wanderers to basically end their title challenge.


For better or worse, Sunday sports results always really affect my mood going into the week. It's nice to get this week started on a good note--the Mets winning, the sun shining.

Tim Dlugos Lives!

I just found out today that Tim Dlugos's Collected Poems is coming out next month, edited by David Trinidad. Dlugos died of AIDS in 1990 just as he was becoming established as a significant poetic voice not only in the gay literary community, but in the wider poetry community as well. Since then he's been virtually ignored by anthologists and critics with the exception of a few short articles by Trinidad.


I was introduced to Dlugos's work when a professor of mine suggested I do a paper on him about five years ago (I have been remiss in failing to either revise it for publication or at least present it at a conference, but will have to revisit it once the new book is released). I love his poems because they have a vitality to them that is Frank O'Hara-esque. O'Hara is my favorite poet; thus that is one of the highest compliments I can pay another writer.


For instance, here is "Not Stravinsky" in full:


Dark-eyed boy in tight designer jeans and sneakers on your way from basketball practice at Bishop Somebody High, I


don't know what you're playing on your Walkman but it probably is not Stravinsky. (Powerless 46)


I love the Whitman-esque long lines (the poem is only two lines long even though each line is long enough to take up two lines of print) and subject matter. The same-sex desire expressed in the poem is beautiful, a fleeting moment of both enjoyment and sadness (the desire going completely unrequited) for the speaker (presumably Dlugos), the knowledge that all the two will ever share is a fleeting moment in passing that isn't even recognized by the boy, but is striking enough for Dlugos to commemorate in a poem. We see here the immediacy of O'Hara's "I do this I do that" poems, that urgency to get an experience down on paper before one moves on with the day, with the rest of life. Dlugos's "On This Train Are People Who Resemble" is also in this vein, an everyday list poem colored by the New York City vibe and references to pop culture. In fact, one could pass it off as a lost O'Hara poem to readers unfamiliar with Dlugos's work.


Hopefully this new collection will put Dlugos back on readers' radar because his work is too good to disappear outside the boundaries of the canon, which, for all its problematic characteristics, is useful for keeping essential literature in print. The best-case scenario would be for Dlugos's Collected Poems to do for his critical reputation what O'Hara's did for his when it was first published in 1971 (O'Hara was more well-known then than Dlugos is now among poetry lovers, but not yet among critics from the academy). Dlugos's Powerless: Selected Poems 1973-1990 (New York: High Risk Books, 1996, also edited by Trinidad), which is an excellent, concise collection, unfortunately did little to stir interest in his work.

"New York" Soccer

I just got back from class this evening and am watching the second half of the DC United-Red Bull New York match, so no post today other than to say that I can't wait for MLS to get a second team in New York, one that actually plays in New York (hopefully the Cosmos) so that I can root for a New York team rather than one that plays in Jersey whose star player is fucking Thierry Henry.

Thoughts on Re-Reading

Later this afternoon I am going to begin re-reading Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses for the first time since I bought it at the Strand (12th and Broadway in NYC) in summer 2003. I claim Rushdie as one of my favorite authors, but I haven't actually read any of his work since reading Midnight's Children in late 2005. Thus I am excited to get back to him.


I have done hardly any re-reading over the past seven years while I've been in graduate school (except in those instances where a book was assigned in several of my classes or I assigned a book to my classes multiple times [e.g., Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close], and also when studying for my Ph.D. exams) because I have not had the time. This is a practice that I miss, because I almost always find that I gain new insights into a text the second (or third, etc.) time around. I like the idea of having a set of texts that one returns to for sustenance throughout one's life as reminders for who one is and where one finds beauty in the world. Religious persons would use the term "sacred texts" to label what I am describing, and I like this term even though I am not religious and don't really care whether a "God" exists (actions are what is important, not whether some unprovable supernatural being is out there or not) because it signifies the idea that some texts help us experience the sublime, the beauty of the world (which are both important concepts for secular folks to claim) better than others.


Texts that have played this "sacred" role for me in the past and that I wish I had time now to re-read, but do not, include Chaim Potok's My Name is Asher Lev, Rudy Wiebe's The Blue Mountains of China, Fyodor Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, and Di Brandt's poetry. Two authors that I have been able to re-read and continue to re-read as I have the time are Walt Whitman and Samuel R. Delany, both of whom I try to teach whenever possible. In Whitman's case, it's much easier to find time to re-read a poem or two (or a section of "Song of Myself" as the case may be) than a novel.


Part of what makes it so difficult to re-read is that I am always finding new books to read as well. I have at least a dozen new books on my shelf (mostly novels) waiting for me. Certainly my book-buying addiction does not lend itself to contemplative returns to old friends.


Also, sometimes I love parentheses a little too much.

The Beatles and Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

One of my favorite aspects about Oskar in Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close is his love for the Beatles, which I share. Oskar randomly mentions Beatles songs throughout the narrative (including some fairly obscure ones), but there are two that are especially important for understanding his mental state througout the book (as opposed to, say, "Yellow Submarine" [1]). They occur in the same sentence, just before Oskar checks the phone messages on 9/11 that have been left by his soon-to-be-dead father (14).


The first song is "Fixing a Hole" (off of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, probably the least well-known song Oskar references--one has to be familiar with the album to know it). This one is rather obvious: throughout the novel Oskar is attempting to "fix the hole" left inside of him after his father's death so he can move on with his life. The song itself is a rather hopeful one because the speaker is having success fixing the hole, but Oskar has no idea how to begin this process. He simply falls into it once he discovers the key in his father's closet and begins searching for its lock.


The second song is "I Want to Tell You" (off of Revolver, an underrated album as far as it is possible for Beatles albums to be underrated). Oskar desperately needs someone to talk to, he "wants to tell" someone about his pain, and he does so to the reader in his rapid-fire almost stream-of-consciousness narration, but what he really wants is to be able to talk with his dead father, and, since that is impossible, to his mother, from whom he feels alienated. But "When [she's] here / All those words, they seem to slip away." He doesn't know how to break down the barrier between them, and she doesn't either. It is not until the end of the book that they slowly begin to communicate again.

Being Scholarly

Today has been an excellent, well-rounded day of scholarly activity. I taught the first quarter of my favorite book, Jonathan Safran Foer’s Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, in my Masterpieces of American Literature course, read some early Allen Ginsberg poems in preparation for a lecture on him that I am attending tomorrow, and wrote an abstract on the role of nudity in Samuel R. Delany’s work for a queer studies conference next October. Ginsberg and Delany are two of the inspirations for my beard (Walt Whitman is the third); it was a happy coincidence that they both played a role in my day. Writing the abstract was my favorite part of the day because it came so easily. It was one of those rare writing experiences where I can barely type fast enough to keep up with my thoughts. This was in part because Delany is consistently very open about his body in his nonfiction and about his characters’ bodies in his fiction, so there is a lot of material to write about, but also because now that I have a job for next year I can focus on my scholarship again, which I have missed deeply. It feels good to get the creative juices flowing, to be reminded that I can still think in a scholarly way after not having done so since November, really.

Back in the Saddle Again

Today marks the return of the New Yorker in Exile blog. We'll see if lasts more than a few weeks this time! However, I am committed this go-round to posting every day no matter what, even if it is simply to post a message explaining why I haven't added any new content that day. I am beginning the blog again because I've been thinking a lot about the concept of "exile" in the past few days. I just accepted a job at Westminster College in Salt Lake City, Utah, which is somewhere that I never thought I would live. It turns out that SLC is a pretty cool place. It has beautiful architecture, amazing scenery (everywhere one turns there are mountains in the near distance that look so perfect one thinks they must be paintings rather than the real thing), and the largest per-capita rate of LGBT persons in the United States, so I will feel right at home. SLC is also intriguing to me conceptually because of its role as a refuge from exile for Mormon settlers. Having lived in the Mennonite equivalent of SLC, Lancaster, Pennsylvania, as an insider, I am fascinated to see what it will be like to live in an end-destination for exiles as an outsider. One reason why the job at Westminster is appealing to me is because it is so far removed from my current/previous life. I am needing a split from my life in DeKalb, a place of refuge to heal from the ravaging experience of graduate school and to have a new beginning. In a sense, I am feeling the need to go into exile. This desire for a completely new space causes part of me to feel like Jonah fleeing to Tarshish rather than dutifully going to Ninevah (i.e., feeling a bit guilty, like maybe I am simply running from the difficult rather than confronting it), but overall I feel the move will be an invigorating, revitalizing experience. SLC will be a liminal space in my life because I will only be there for two or three years (the stated term of my job), which is also an invigorating factor. It can act as a place of renewal while also presenting itself as a jumping-off point. The structured temporariness of the position is something I need. A spot on my continuing journey rather than an ending.